The Powerful Play
by Metallover130
Summary: /The powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse./ My own take on Jonathan and Harvey as business partners, with eventual slash. The first installment is in four parts due to my computer's inability to seperate all of a sudden. So, long chapter.
1. Off to a Bad Start

I.

It was a cool autumn day in October, the sky a listless gray framed by skeletal trees. Stone edifices stared back at the passerby who made their way up and down the streets. On the stoops of townhouses carved jack-o-lanterns grinned and leaves in the colors of Fall sprinkled gutters and sidewalks. A gentleman walked calmly past these sights as if blind to them, but a small smile on his face said otherwise; it said he knew what time of the year approached—his time.

This man was not tall, but he wasn't short, either. He was a fair 5' 10", with short dark brown hair and eyes bluer that the sky on a summer day. His glasses flashed with the pale light whenever he walked from beneath the shade and his gaunt face carried a soft shadow to it, giving him a grim appearance. This was only appropriate, considering the date; it was nearly Halloween, and Jonathan Crane considered it to be _his_ holiday. He was, after all, the Master of Fear, and he had a reputation to uphold.

His heavy black coat kept out the autumn chill as he made his way through the ritzier neighborhoods of Gotham. Usually just the mention of the city's name evoked images of black nights and dark buildings, or bloody murders in the rain. It was easy to forget that the sun shone even in Gotham, though today it lacked luster. The Fall kept things an even monotone of gray, and that was just fine with Crane. The most colors you saw in October were the oranges of leaves and pumpkins and though orange was Jonathan's least favorite color it was easier to deal with than Christmas or Valentine's Day. Here in the richer part of the city the buildings were brighter but thankfully pale and Jonathan even whistled a little as he walked. He hated those with stupid amounts of money but right now it would be difficult to ruin his mood; he'd just mixed up a whole barrelful of his new toxin and tomorrow night he'd get the chance to use it.

Jonathan turned the corner at the end of the street and cut through a small local park. Children accompanied by their parents raced across wood chip ground, swinging and laughing, jumping into piles of leaves and throwing them at each other. Crane passed them and rested on a bench—the brown paper bag he was carrying wasn't heavy when he'd started home, but now he was feeling the weight. While he rested, he breathed in the Fall air; it was crisp and clean. It disgusted him in a way—even the air smelled better in rich neighborhoods.

A woman came and sat down beside Jonathan to catch her own breath. She was dressed to jog in autumn, with long pants and a sweatshirt. She panted for maybe five minutes, checked her wristwatch, then noticed Jonathan. She smiled at him appreciatively and Jonathan smiled back. She was very attractive, with bright green eyes and hair of sentient fire, and Jonathan imagined she had to look stunning when she was screaming her head off.

But no time to waste; he didn't want to get distracted. Before the woman could strike up a conversation about how her husband was away on business Jonathan stood and resumed his easy pace homewards.

Well, "lairwards" really would have been more accurate. Jonathan had the extreme fortune of having had procured a hideout that for once wasn't in some godforsaken hovel in the Narrows. In actuality it was more Harvey than himself—it seemed that the former DA still had some weight to throw around, even though he now a villain. Of course it might have something to do with his two shiny guns he was fond of flashing, but in the end Jonathan didn't care how they got the house, just so long as they had it. According to Harvey they were renting it under the name "Stringfellow" which Crane found to be fantastically moronic, but Harvey said it was to make it easier to remember.

He saw the house all the way from the end of the street when he turned the corner, and flinched inwardly. He was happy to have the house, but he wished Harvey could have found something . . . _subtler_. The house Dent had procured for them was a three-story Victorian style mansion that decorated the end of the street. Luckily it was framed by some equal idiotic houses on either side, but still sickeningly to look at. Harvey apparently found Jonathan's opinion to be hilarious; he credited it to Jonathan having grown up dirt-poor on a farm. It still made the two-faced man laugh that Jonathan had come from Georgia to Gotham.

"From farm-boy to pharmaceutical," Harvey would snicker. It may have been fun for him to poke at Jonathan's insecurities but it was almost as amusing for Jonathan to watch the way the exposed muscle twitched and slithered over his bared teeth where the skin was missing from his face. Once, when Harvey had fallen asleep at the table in an older hideout (back when they had first started working together) Jonathan had made the mistake of touching the wound. Before he knew what was happening Harvey had him on the floor and that one unblinking eye bore into his own while the former district attorney promised death at a second attempt to investigate him.

Not that Harvey wasn't curious about Jonathan's scars. He often asked about the long burn scar that dotted over the left of Jonathan's face; it started near his forehead and peppered around his eyes toward his cheek. It wasn't an attractive scar, but it was thankfully pale so it was hard to see in bad light and hardly anyone noticed unless they were looking. Harvey was though, and scars interested him.

"So where _did_ you get that scar?" he'd ask. "From when Batman bashed your face into the concrete when some battle got too rough, or a patient that retaliated? Did that mask of yours backfire?" Jonathan would always sigh and say he didn't want to talk about it. He wouldn't have problems telling the man how he got it if only he hadn't gotten it from a certain deceased Rachel Dawes, Harvey's dead girlfriend. He also chose to leave out that he personally tortured her several years ago when she'd gotten too close to learning the truth and nearly made her permanently mad. Then she'd electrocuted his face with a tazer, so he saw them as being even. Harvey, on the other hand, might not.

As Jonathan walked around the back of the house he thought of his other scars, the ones hidden under his clothes and inside his head. He'd fallen down a flight of stairs once when trying to escape Batman and broken his leg, and even now he still sometimes felt a phantom ache while he ran or stepped too hard. He'd also broken his ribs after fighting the Joker; he'd tried to use toxins on him. Sadly the Joker's mind was already so fractured that the toxin had no effect and the clown merrily beat Jonathan with a chair. And not to mention the years of abuse he'd suffered at the hands of his decrepit and sadistic great-grandmother. Then there had been his miserable school years where the skinny boy with glasses was the target for every testosterone pumped imbecile and his equally if not more stupid friends. Passing through the backyard Jonathan saw a scarecrow slumped on a chair, a noose around its neck. He shuddered thinking back to when he himself had nearly escaped such a fate. That was around the time he'd first been gifted with the name "Scarecrow." The other school children found his lanky form appropriate to be hung from a tree and it was his own meager strength and superior mind that saved him a slow death of asphyxiation.

"Ignorant little bastards," he muttered loosely, marching up the back steps to the kitchen door. The items in the paper bag rattled together when he set them down on the counter and he took a moment to catch his breath. He was really starting to wish they'd hire some henchmen already—menial chores such as grocery shopping were rather annoying to complete without a car.

"Jonathan?" a voice called from further inside the house. Sounded like the living room.

"In here," he yelled, tugging off his gloves, tossing them onto the table. His jacket was off and hanging on the coat rack by the time Harvey found his way into the kitchen. He was dressed in a plain white shirt which contrasted with the half-yellow, half-red tie he was wearing, as well as the pants that matched the tie. After talking to the Joker about costume consideration Harvey had taken up a serious obsession with dual-colored suits. Jonathan tried to support his sudden enthusiasm, but when Harvey started suggesting Jonathan rethink his costume he ultimately stopped listening.

"Did you get everything?" Harvey asked the moment he saw Crane.

"Everything but the kitchen sink," Jonathan replied with a sour note. Harvey had been overcome by a strange craving and Jonathan was forced to enable it since Harvey couldn't very well go out and get it himself. "Have you ever put any serious thought into plastic surgery? Or maybe just some latex rubber?"

"And lose these devilishly good looks?" Harvey said, mock-appalled. He grinned and the skin around his gaping face-wound stretched unpleasantly. Jonathan tried not to look at it—instead he shoved the bag at Harvey and turned away before he had to see him eat. It was easy for Crane to state that it made him want to puke when while Harvey chewed his food bits would sometimes tumble out of the hole in his face; nothing more stomach churning than taco bits falling out while the remainder of his lips smacked together. When their hideouts had been smaller Jonathan usually ate with his eyes closed, only opening them to find the food, shutting them once he knew it was on the fork. This was also something Harvey found laughable, since Jonathan had stabbed himself in the face more than once.

"I'm just saying it might be easier," Jonathan said staring fixedly out the window so as to spare himself the sight of Harvey's teeth grinding through his cheek. "For you and for me. I know you certainly never asked to have half your face scorched off—"

"Drop it," Harvey said with a wave of his hand. The sound and motion made Jonathan look up and he immediately wished he hadn't. Harvey had opened the bag and started eating his way through a pop-open can of raw spaghetti—the kind you microwave—and noodles and sauce were dripping from the hole by his mouth. Jonathan clapped a hand over his own mouth to fight off his instinct to purge and nodded quickly. He knew Harvey had a whole "repentance" issue that kept him from doing anything to repair his damaged face and he tried to respect it, but that was hard to do when you had to _look_ at it.

Still, after spending nearly half a year on the run erratically jumping from place to place Jonathan had gotten much more used to his partner's unorthodox and honestly disturbing appearance. There had been a few nauseating times where they'd been forced to share a bed and Jonathan had the unfortunate experience of waking up face-to-face with Harvey's malformation. It was like waking up beside something out a zombie horror flick; Jonathan's first reaction had been to scream, then flail until he fell off the bed. Harvey awoke moments later, lightly puzzled about why Crane was struggling against the blanket on the floor. After that Harvey had graciously agreed to sleep in a chair or even on the floor, sometimes switching places with Crane if the other started to cramp up.

Thankfully that had been solved by the massive house they'd procured and Jonathan left Harvey in the kitchen to go up to his own room to change. The day was growing late already and there was much to do before tomorrow. It wasn't a necessarily complicated plan, but it would require some thoughtfulness, and even Harvey's assistance.

There was to be a Halloween parade through the streets of Chicago tomorrow night, a whole feast of clowns and witches, vampires and werewolves, even bats and scarecrows. Costumes, candy, and comradery, all fantastic things, but none of which interested Jonathan. What kept his attention were the massive pumpkin balloons fashioned specifically for the parade. Seventy all in different sizes with varying faces, these colossal air-bags were supposed to be filled with helium—but Jonathan thought toxin would suit them much better.

He'd spent weeks laboring over the serum, pouring his blood and sweat into his work until it was perfect. He'd thought it impossible at first to fashion a formula that maintained buoyancy on a comparable level with helium and yet still contained all the potent characteristics of the toxin, but experimentation proved otherwise. It had never occurred to him before that his toxin already had the tendency to buoy when inserted into something like a balloon; he'd never felt the need to test it. But the Joker had inspired him (a fact he'd never admit to _anyone_) when he'd seen the clown offer a child a simple birthday balloon only to have it pop and blood sprayed out. He'd thought to himself that the fear toxin would be much more effective, and then he had his plan.

He'd already tried mass exposure when he'd poisoned Gotham's water supply, but this would be easier and harder to stop. False labeling would really be all it would take—no one was really going to question a few thousand tanks of helium, were they? To be safe he'd hire a few goons to watch and wait, maybe intervene, but that would likely be all it took. Once his new compound was in the balloons, he'd have Harvey's men (who were on call for things such as this and only this, hence his trip to the store) attach small detonators to every balloon. When the balloons were properly spaced, he'd detonate every bomb, one at a time. If done correctly it would create a spectacular domino effect, and then nearly all of Chicago would be a cesspool of hallucinating madmen. Jonathan sighed wistfully at the very thought—it was a dream come true.

The sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs announced Harvey's presence and Jonathan, who had started to unbutton his shirt, paused. What did Two-Face want that he couldn't have asked him downstairs? The scarred man answered himself when he entered, knocking as he did so.

"Yes?" Jonathan turned away not because he didn't want to see Harvey, but because he wanted to look busy. He didn't entirely care for being interrupted and he wanted Harvey to know he was annoyed. "Is this important?"

If Harvey felt the sting he didn't say so. "Is everything ready for tomorrow night? My men are awaiting instructions." He was using his Two-Face voice, the more gravel toned one that instilled fear and made cowards squirm. Jonathan's skin prickled at the sound, fighting a shudder.

"Everything's ready, except me," Jonathan frowned. He wanted to be well rested before tomorrow so he could more fully enjoy the sights and sounds of madness. "Tell your men to be in position at eleven o'clock, the balloons are to be filled at ten sharp. I want them ready to plant the explosives just before the parade begins. I can't have the whole thing ruined if someone decides to give a last minute inspection." Unconsciously Jonathan had started to pace the room. "It's all got to be perfect. It's got to be. I don't want any part of this going wrong." He paused and looked at Harvey for the first time. "You're absolutely sure the Bat's off our trail? He's got no clue?"

"One can never be one hundred percent sure," Harvey said with a shrug. "But so far as my intelligence has reported there's been no inquiries. You ordered outside of the country for your chemicals, right, and had them delivered in Michigan, yeah?" Jonathan nodded and continued his pacing. He'd been totally confident a moment ago but Harvey's checking in had thrown him off balance again. He'd ordered all his supplies (a rather large amount that had bitten deeply into his funds) from China and Russia, places that had no problem supplying a madman such as himself with surplus chemicals for destructive purposes. He used fake name after fake name, demolished his paper trails, used cash whenever possible, and even went so far as to have everything dumped upstate so it wouldn't ever register to Gotham. He then disguised the truck bringing the supplies as a Wal-Mart truck. He snickered to himself at the memory—Edward Nigma had once attested that you could acquire anything in the world from a Wal-Mart, even if you had to buy several items to fashion them into another.

"Like an object color wheel," he laughed. He'd been drunk out of his skull but still brilliant, and it was that joke that made Jonathan pick the truck he did. And, so far as he knew, that particular store still wasn't even aware of the truck's "misplacement."

The preparation had taken Jonathan nearly a straight two weeks, but he'd managed with Harvey's help. He'd been a little apprehensive since Harvey had no experience whatsoever with complex chemical formulas, but they'd managed the required amount. The mix for the balloons was ninety percent Jonathan's concoction, ten percent weak helium. Not enough to interfere with his toxin but enough to add all the lift required. It took him many sleepless nights but he'd found the right proportions, and that night him and Harvey had celebrated.

It wasn't every day they found an occasion for shameless drunken stupidity, but that had been one of those times where it was only appropriate. At the time Jonathan still had henchmen and one of his had brought back four cases of beer and four bottles of wine. Harvey had offered to pay if only to spare himself Jonathan's whining and they spent the rest of the night drinking and laughing and talking until they both passed out in their seats. Most of the night was a blur but Jonathan did recall Harvey knocking back a can of Bud only to have half of it come pouring out the side of his head. For once it hadn't disgusted Jonathan and he'd laughed so hard he cried and fell out of his chair, spilling half a glass of red wine on the carpet. The stain was still there.

There were other parts of the night that Jonathan couldn't explain and there was no evidence of, but he was certain they happened, whatever they were. He distinctly remembered the taste of burned meat, like overcooked steak, and the sensation of something heavy crushing his chest. Unfortunately there were no images to go with these sensations, so he wrote them off for when he had the sufficient time and memory to examine them.

In the time he'd taken to delve into his reverie Harvey had joined him by the window where Crane had finally ceased pacing.

"It's going to go over fine," he said, trying to sound reassuring. To his credit he did, but Jonathan was already riled inside, unable to calm himself. He was agitated and nervous, and already his plan would go into motion tomorrow. It felt like a lifetime away, a lifetime in which to screw up and end the day with him on his back on either a gurney or the backseat of Batman's tumbler with a black eye and a broken arm.

"I'm not going back there," Jonathan muttered darkly, putting his hand against the cool glass of the windowpane. Outside the sky was growing darker, shifting shades of gray toward black. Soon all the light would be gone and only the streetlights would guide anyone lost to their homes. It reminded Jonathan of one particular battle with the Batman where he'd lost his glasses. He dodged the first punch the Bat threw but the glancing blow stole his glasses from his face, sending them to the cement where they shattered into a hundred pieces. He'd managed to escape into a maze of alley ways and shortcuts in the Narrows, but while losing the Bat he also lost himself. Without his vision he wandered aimlessly through the dark labyrinth, his hands outstretched, stumbling over trash cans and God only knew what else. He fell often, scraping his palms raw on concrete and outcrops of metal twisted around chunks of demolished buildings. When he did eventually find his way home his first matter of business was a tetanus shot, then new glasses. Harvey had suggested contacts to him on more than one occasion but his words fell on ears as deaf as his own when it came to the subject of Harvey repairing his burned face.

"What?" Harvey asked, in response to Jonathan's bitter whisper. Jonathan seemed not to have realized he'd spoken aloud, and blinked in surprise at Harvey before remembering.

"Arkham," he said with a dismissive wave. "I'm not going back. I'd rather die."

"Is it that bad?"

"You have no idea." In truth Harvey had some idea, as Gotham had imprisoned him there after his "death". He'd really only been knocked into a comatose state. But his horrendous condition and the blood on his hands (despite Batman's intervention to clear his name) sent him to Arkham. He was to be locked up, hidden away from the world so that Gotham never had to know what had become of their beloved "White Knight". But that had changed when the Joker decided he was done with asylum life, and he took Harvey and Jonathan with him. The Clown Prince of Crime wanted Jonathan's help to concoct a laughing gas that could kill. He broke Harvey out because Harvey was his masterpiece—he'd taken someone so pure and steadfast in his morals and mutated him into something as twisted as he was. He'd told Batman he succeeded into bringing Harvey down to his level. After that Harvey spent nearly a year locked in Arkham, dead to the world.

But in reality his torture was mostly emotional. His burns no longer actually hurt him unless harshly touched, so it was his isolation that caused him discomfort. Rachel was dead and he was dead too, at least on the inside and in the hearts and minds of Gothamites city wide.

In Jonathan's case, the torture was much worse. It was no lie to say he was one of the most hated men in Gotham after his stunt with the toxin in the narrows, holding Gotham ransom, and poisoning one third of the city, so when the former Arkham administrator fell from his pedestal there were plenty of vengeance thirsty citizens and employees waiting to catch him with a straight jacket. And a needle full of sedative, too.

For months after his asylum incarceration Jonathan suffered through tens of hundreds of tests, experiments, and grueling operations. His numerous injuries had helped him and weeks on end at the mercy of asylum infirmary doctors had been no better than being at the mercy of the regular asylum doctors. He'd lost count of the pills they'd shoved down his throat or all the needles inserted into his veins. They'd even tried electro therapy, an experience he _never_ wanted to repeat.

Harvey caught the look in Jonathan's eyes and wisely chose not to press. Instead he clapped a supportive hand on Crane's shoulder and smiled. From where Jonathan stood he couldn't see any of Harvey's burns, and he had the fantastical sensation that he was seeing the old Harvey Dent, with his trademark campaign smile. Jonathan also had the fleeting impression that Harvey was handsome in the right light, when his mutilated countenance was all but invisible. Like it never happened. Jonathan wondered briefly if Harvey ever stood in front of the mirror with half his face covered, chasing old ghosts of the past in his reflection.

"Trust me," he said. "It'll all work out."

II.

As Jonathan ran, he had quite decided that no, it had _not_ worked out. It hadn't gone completely wrong, they'd only made one real mistake, and that was thinking they'd played their whole game under Bat's radar. Unfortunately for the two partners in crime Batman had been watching them since July when Jonathan had begun placing test orders. Unlike his mass orders he'd hardly bothered hiding his prefactory shipments and Batman had caught him red-handed _months ago_. Jonathan could die of the shame, but at the moment it looked much more likely that he'd either die from being trampled, hit with a car, or pummeled to death by the Dark Knight himself.

Currently Jonathan was pumping his legs as hard as he possibly could, sprinting through panicked crowds with all the expected skill of a skinny man used to fleeing for his life. To be fair Jonathan's experiment wasn't a total letdown; the moment Batman arrived Harvey had alerted Crane and the mad doctor had ordered every balloon to blow now, no matter where it was. In the end only twelve of the seventy balloons exploded and that was a letdown in itself, but enough toxin was released to ensure a heavy reaction. Sadly Jonathan had neither the time nor the tools to record his findings, but luckily this was Chicago, and that meant reporters. It was impossible that his adventures wouldn't be plastered on every television set by the morning news tomorrow, and that was all Jonathan needed as comfort—that and the .22 Smith and Wesson Harvey had lent him bouncing against his chest in its shoulder holster. For once Jonathan had agreed to take a real weapon, and now he was thankful he'd caved. In this situation his own brand of defense was useless and—much as it pained him to say—stupid. It was highly unlikely he'd encounter anyone not already poisoned and even if he didn't he wanted to put as much distance between Batman and himself before doing anything but running for his life.

He stopped finally when he was mostly free from the blast range and the toxin was aired out. Tugging off his mask Jonathan collapsed against a wall, shielding himself from view with a dumpster. His chest was burning and he gasped for air, his throat dry and his face dripping with sweat. His hand fumbled in his pocket; he was looking for the cell phone Harvey had given him for emergency contact. Part of him had the nagging idea that Harvey would just abandon him and run to whatever back-up hideout he had prepared. With a nasty shudder he pushed the idea away and dialed the number Harvey made him memorize; within five seconds someone picked up.

"Harvey?"

"Jonathan!" Crane sighed with relief, not even bothering to muffle himself.

"Harvey, where are you?" I need to be picked up."

"Where are _you_?" Jonathan peered around from behind the dumpster.

"In an alleyway on St. Sebastian Road," he said quickly, keeping his voice low. The cell phone wasn't registered, the service illegal, so there was a good chance no one was listening in but Jonathan wasn't taking any chances. "Behind the dumpster."

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Harvey said and hung up; the silence from the other line sounded endless. Jonathan clicked the phone shut with another sigh, this one of frustration and exhaustion. Today had downright sucked—he wanted a shower and a good nights rest. After all the sleep he'd lost on this, all his hard work, to have failed was such a letdown.

"I might as well crawl into a hole and die," he murmured, resting his face in his hands. God, he was a horrible villain. He really needed to consider a safer means of carrying out his plans, or else there was the terrible possibility they would all end as badly as this, with Harvey or Harley or Edward having to come to his rescue. He needed to learn a new skill; biochemical research wasn't going to keep him going forever, and his doctorate was useless as an outlaw. For the first time he started to think that maybe he'd been a little hasty with his life, choosing paths because they amused him or were easy. He'd certainly heard Batman lecture him enough that with his genius he could have been something great, instead of something hated. Really Jonathan was just happy to have the attention of so many directed at his cause, even if it was ignorant, negative attention. Just because they couldn't understand what he was doing didn't mean they had to shun it so completely. Then again, maiming innocents mentally wasn't entirely the best decision of his life either, but when conducting large range experiments you needed to have a lot of variables to test against the control. He'd only ever had prison inmates, and they were already out of their minds.

"I really need to get my shit together," Crane sighed, defeated. "Where the hell is Harvey?"

He was answered by his head being slammed violently into the dumpster beside him, a deep ringing resonating in his skull. The pain exploded and he blacked out for a few crucial seconds he could have used to defend himself. Instead he was hauled up by his jacket and smashed against the wall three or four times, coming close to blacking out again before his attacker ceased, holding him to the bricks.

"_Crane_," it growled, and Jonathan's blood turned to ice in his veins. _Oh sweet Lord. Batman._ His vision was swimming after having his head bashed repeatedly, but when it focused again he knew he was correct, and for once he wasn't happy about that fact. The Kevlar vested man himself was supporting Crane against the wall with one hand, while the other was tracing up and down his arms, looking for the toxin no doubt. If discovering none surprised him he didn't show it; instead he began feeling up Crane's legs as far as he could reach, as well as a fast pass over his groin and his waist. He was getting close to the gun and Crane knew in an instant that if he lost it he'd have nothing else to defend himself with. _Harvey's on the way. I have to stall him._ When Batman's hand was almost to the concealed gun Jonathan began struggling as violently as he could. He needed to distract the Bat, and keep him entertained for as long as possible, or until Dent arrived.

"_Let me go!_" he yelled, kicking out hard against Batman's armor. It hurt his feet even inside his shoes to strike the metal plating but his idea worked; immediately Batman began pummeling him on the wall again. His glasses tumbled from his face and he tried to grapple for them but they hit the ground and skittered away into the darkness of the alley. Now effectually blind Jonathan felt the cold fingers of dread and panic crawling up his spine, threatening to strangle him if the Bat didn't cream his brains out. Choking back his fear Jonathan kept fighting knowing this would end the way most all his encounters with the Bat ended—him a bleeding mess, Batman standing over him, the sound of police sirens drawing near and then the tightness of a fresh Arkham housecoat.

Then a miracle happened. Somewhere in the distance someone screamed; the long, howling screams of extreme agony. That sound was enough to divert the Bat's attention and Jonathan put his hand inside his coat and drew out the .22 Smith and Wesson, cocking back the hammer with a smile of pure satisfaction. In any other situation he might have gloated or taken his time, but not today. Today he was solely focused on escape. He put the barrel on one of the metal plates over Batman's ribs, aiming not to kill but to injure. He didn't want Batman dead, not yet—first he wanted some goddamn _entertainment_. He fired the gun four times and the proximity of the gun blew the metal apart, denting it in dangerously far, shredding the upper layers of Batman's suit. He knew the layer upon layer of Kevlar beneath the plates and suit would protect the Bat but there was no doubt the vigilante would be feeling this the next day.

With a grunt of surprise, Batman stumbled away from Crane, holding his side. There was no blood but he looked to be in something akin to excruciating pain. Jonathan didn't even bother hiding his supreme joy at this, and he walked confidently by as Batman fell to his knees, gasping for breath. He retrieved his glasses from the pavement, glowering at the scratches etched onto the glass. To repay him for this grievance Jonathan delivered a vicious kick to Batman's wounded side, reveling in the decadence of his pain-filled yell. Oh, how he craved a _scream_, but Bats wasn't a screamer. Oh well, pain was pain. He gave him another few well-aimed blows, this time to the face, always careful to avoid the electrified cowl. He wondered vaguely if he broke any of Batman's teeth.

The ecstasy of the moment was so high that Jonathan actually laughed, a deep, heavy echo that ruptured from his mouth as a volcano of bemusement. Him, Jonathan Crane, the belittled villain, was kicking the living crap out of The Caped Crusader! How fantastic, how astronomical, how incredible! Adrenaline flooded Jonathan's system and he gave Batman another good swift kick, dancing around him in barely restrained glee. God, what he wouldn't give for some toxin now, with a formula the Bat couldn't combat, oh the very _idea_!

"Jonathan, look out!" Crane ceased his twirling facing out of the alleyway and saw Harvey leaning out the passenger side door of one of his cars. Jonathan tried to figure out what the scorched man was screaming at him, but the unexpected eruption of blood from his face halted almost all thought completely. Apparently he hadn't been doing so well against the Bat as he thought since the man was on his feet, drawing back a fist glazed with red. Jonathan raised a hand to his face, pulling it back to find it soaked completely with crimson; _his_ crimson. _Son of a bitch broke my nose_, he thought vehemently, just before Batman drew in to hit him again. Jonathan backed away knowing he was about to get an education in the phrase "payback's a bitch", but then a gunshot from far away caught everyone's attention.

Harvey had fired at Batman from the car.

III.

All in all, things hadn't gone as badly as they could have. While one of Harvey's men (a fellow called Black Jack) drove another was supporting Jonathan in the back seat, helping him to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. He'd lost quite a bit since their encounter with the Bat, but he was doing better now. At least most of the color had come back to his skin; when they'd packed him into the backseat unconscious he'd been whiter than clean paper.

Up front Harvey was silent, flipping his coin obsessively. He was staring straight ahead looking positively statuesque, more stolid and calm than _The Thinker_. The unnamed individual helping Jonathan kept glancing from Crane to Harvey anxiously, like he was expecting to have to dump Jonathan's body or something. Or maybe he was just trying to gauge Harvey's mood—not unlikely when you were working for Harvey Two-Face, the single most bipolar man in Gotham. Speaking of the city, they'd just re-entered it after driving for nearly an hour. Batman had likely already put out an alert for Harvey's car, but it was just as likely he was nursing his latest gunshot wounds. The thought of it made a flicker of a smile flash on Jonathan's weary face, and he hoped the Bat had fun fishing the shrapnel out of his shoulder.

When Harvey had fired at them he'd gotten off five rounds, four of which hit the Bat, two at the most doing severe damage. The fifth had missed and struck Jonathan, grazing his scalp. The shock of it had made Jonathan faint and he knew once Harvey was sure he was alright he'd mock him for his weakness. Something about how it had barely hit him, or something like that. When finally it felt like no fresh blood was coming Jonathan let his head fall back to rest on the seat. And he thought he'd been exhausted earlier; now he felt dead. He chalked it up to his not sleeping for days on end when working on the toxin, and suddenly felt ready for some of the godforsaken sedatives they pumped him full of at the asylum—those things knocked you out for _days_.

"How are you holding up back there?" Harvey suddenly asked, startling both Jonathan and the man beside him. When Crane realized who had spoken he put a hand to his temple, rubbing away the coming migraine.

"Fine, if I forget about my head completely." Not only did he have the broken nose, but there was also the bullet grazing coupled with the mass of bruises from where Batman had so kindly ground his head into the wall. _Repeatedly_.

"Aw, don't be such a whiner," Harvey jeered amiably. "You'll live." The burnt half of his face was all Jonathan could see so he had no idea if Dent was smiling, but it sounded like he was.

"Debatable," Jonathan countered, dabbing at his upper lip where a trickle of cool blood had fallen. Harvey chuckled and stopped flipping his coin long enough to point out which road for Black Jack to take. They'd been forced to ditch their old hideout; thankfully Harvey had the sound mind to send a few men back to retrieve some of their personals before torching the place. Jonathan mourned for his research after how long it had taken him to put it all to paper, but his memory would preserve it, for now. At least until he found the means to record it all again. Harvey had nothing of value beyond his coin, so burning down their three-story mansion hadn't bothered him in the slightest. Besides, he'd already found them a place.

"Where?" Jonathan had asked when Harvey told him. They were nearly there and only just then had Harvey thought it wise to inform Jonathan of what was going on.

"A burned out tenement, east of the river," he'd said. "Don't worry, it's not as bad as it sounds. I even had my men deliver some things there for us." By "things" he meant Jonathan's personals, as well as Harvey's extensive collection of suits, which was probably the only thing in the world beyond his coin that he gave a crap for. He also told of some basic amenities, such as a bed and food to last until the end of the week.

"By bed, you mean the one we're going to have to share, right? Unless one of us gets a couch."

"Sorry, no couch. It's two in one or the floor, I'm afraid." Jonathan's stomach twisted into a knot and he wondered how easily he could bleed to death from breaking his nose again—he still had the gun, maybe he could just shoot himself. Harvey caught his despairing look in the rearview mirror and rolled his eyes—a feat incredible to watch when one of Harvey's eyes had no eyelids. "Relax Johnny, it's only for a week or so, just until I find something bigger." Jonathan chose not to bring up whether or not they could find something bigger and instead leaned back on the seat again, closing his eyes.

"Whatever, wake me up when we get there."

They did wake him, and Jonathan was incredibly tempted to just stay sleeping in the backseat instead of sharing a bed with the bacon-faced wonder. But Harvey told him that was a no-go—his men were taking the car out again, right then. Jonathan rolled onto his side to lean on the window, ignoring Harvey. _I'll just go along for the ride_, he thought acidly. Harvey had other plans though; he caught Jonathan by his collar and dragged him from the car, not kicking and screaming so much as whining and slumping. When he actually got Crane out of the car he collapsed weakly on the ground, intent on not moving. Harvey huffed in frustration, nudging his boot on Jonathan's side.

"Move your scrawny ass," he groaned, practically pleading with the doctor. He wasn't in the mood for any of this either, and he looked quite exhausted, too. "C'mon Johnny, we haven't got all day!" Jonathan let his head roll back so he could see Harvey—sweat was standing out on his remaining skin, and he seemed about to collapse himself. Jonathan decided to oblige Harvey, even if he had nearly shot him. His aim may have been off, but his timing wasn't. Had it not been for Dent Jonathan was sure he'd already be wrapped up snug in a fresh straight jacket, hugging himself while a sneering nurse filled him full of sedatives to keep him quiet. The memory of one such occasion made Jonathan grin a bit; the doctors had forgotten to sedate him once and the uproar he'd caused sent twelve other inmates into a panic. Sometime in his life (he'd forgotten exactly when) Jonathan had learned to shriek in such a manner as to replicate a banshee, or a ghoul. He normally only used it for patients or test subjects with specific fears, but in that situation it had been enough to scare the living hell out of everyone on that _floor_. His vocal cords had hurt like they'd been rubbed with sandpaper, but the pain was worth it to know he'd given someone a nightmare. He heard the night terrors himself, even through the haze of medication. He'd laughed until he fell asleep.

Jonathan eventually climbed to his feet and he and Harvey made their way inside. Jonathan waited by the door while Harvey scrambled for the light. Crane covered his eyes, waiting for a flash of blinding white. Off in the dark he heard Harvey curse; he'd barked his shin on a footstool.

"_Shit!_ Ah, I know that bastard light is around here–" His voice cut off, and the room was flooded with light. "There it is!" He was smiling his campaign smile—or, that's what it looked like, at least. His smile always looked that way, a mix of triumphant and charming. Despite himself Jonathan found a smirk of sorts, more real then his usual grins, spreading across his lips. Harvey was contagious, like a virus, but suddenly Jonathan was aware he didn't care in the slightest.

"So where is everything? I don't want to get lost tomorrow."

"Ha! Fat chance of that. This place is so small not even Penguin could forget his way." They both laughed at that, and it was a good feeling. There was so little to laugh about nowadays, for villains as well as heroes. Jonathan was still snickering at the idea of Oswald Cobblepot trying to waddle through the narrow hallway when Harvey led them to the bedroom. It was just as small and awkward as Jonathan had expected, and as Harvey had foretold there was only one bed. It was a queen-size, so it wasn't like they'd be fighting for space, but Jonathan kept thinking back to when he woke up right next to Harvey's mutilated face. The sight of that unblinking eye so close he could see the shine of his bare cornea . . . that stayed with him. Jonathan marveled silently that the eye remained—he would have thought it would have dried up or fallen out by now. The single unflinching blue eye disturbed Crane more than anything about Harvey, and he was afraid their ventures would end the way of _The Telltale Heart_. Harvey seemed to see this in Jonathan's wary gaze so he gave Crane his back.

"Unless you're going to sleep in your shoes, I'd suggest taking them off. We've got a busy schedule ahead of us in the morning."

"Oh? What do you have in mind?" Jonathan listened to Harvey as he tugged at his shoes and shrugged off his jacket.

"Like I said earlier my men are bringing some things, then we're going out."

"Out? Out where?"

"We're going to see Joker about a warehouse."

"A warehouse! Why do we need a warehouse?"

"Because we need some place where it won't be suspicious for lots of things to be delivered to. Joker mentioned a docking warehouse that gets shipments every other night. I thought it might be more appropriate. We'll go to check it out tomorrow afternoon, after we get something to eat." He paused long enough to turn around and grin at Crane. "And think about it—with all that room, you could start your experimentation again. People could scream themselves hoarse in those places, and no one would hear a thing." Jonathan's eyes lit up at that. Harvey wouldn't let him keep test subjects in the basement of the house because he was always afraid someone would hear, but in a warehouse . . .

Jonathan came dangerously close to giggling again as he shimmied out of his pants. He didn't really want to get into the bed with no clothes to protect himself (after all, who knew where those sheets had been?), and he was in no rush to be up against Harvey half-naked, but his OCD simply wouldn't let him wrinkle his clothes by sleeping in them. His shirt, slacks, jacket and shoes went into a neat little pile on a chair he'd already brushed the dust off of. All things considered the tenement wasn't as dirty as some of the other places they'd been forced to stay, nor was it the smallest.

_Oh well_, thought Jonathan as he carefully slid under the covers on his side of the bed. _Things could always be worse. Always. I could be getting into bed with the Joker. _The light went out with a click and Crane felt the mattress shift with Harvey's weight, and subconsciously he shuddered inside. For a moment he had a terrible fantasy that Harvey would roll over on top of him, and put his mouth over his and suffocate him. Then his own sense corrected him: _He couldn't suffocate you like that—he's got a hole in his face._ Wondering why his mind tortured him Jonathan rolled onto his side, burying his face into the pillow. He stayed like that until the sounds of Harvey's soft breathing put him to sleep.

IV.

That night Jonathan had a strange dream. He was wandering through a black, listless nothing, scrambling around, his hands outstretched, searching. He felt like he was back in the alleys of the Narrows, blind, grappling for something, _anything_, that he could grab onto for aid. For uncountable hours it felt like he was inching his way through a tunnel impossibly high and impossibly wide that went in every direction. He sensed there were barriers of some decree, but maybe they were just the boundaries of his own mind. No matter how far he ran in any given direction he never met with any opposition and no matter how fast he never got anywhere. He thought he would never get out, but then something reached out and took hold of him—someone's hand. It was warm and reassuring. Jonathan held onto it tight enough so that he might never let go. Who or whatever was dragging him held on right back, and pulled along at a pace that made him fight for his footholds with every step. They ran and ran and even though Jonathan knew it was a dream he felt his legs starting to fail and his breath starting to hitch. He wanted to stop, to rest, to give up, but the thing pulling him urged him on, never letting up.

Finally, ahead, there was a light. A tiny pinprick, but it gave hope. Jonathan ran for it, reached for it, now the one pulling. He yanked on the thing that had helped him, trying to get it to the light too, but now it was reluctant. It tried to pull away but Jonathan wouldn't let it. Why did it fight him? With a final tug he brought it into the beam of light, and understood why it had tried to flee. A clump of mottled flesh was revealed, as well as an eye, bright blue and unblinking, staring at him. Jonathan opened his mouth to scream but then the thing was on him, screaming at _him_. His own fear blocked it out for a moment, but after a second he understood what it was yelling: _Wake up, scaredy cat! Wake up!_

Jonathan came awake with a holler and this time it was Harvey who pitched out of bed.

Four hours later saw Jonathan packed into the back of an unmarked white van along with Harvey's entire collection of bicolored suits. Instead of the two of them going out to view the warehouse together Harvey had left Jonathan in bed and gone out alone. Apparently the warehouse was everything they'd need and when he came back he was in such a jolly mood he flipped the mattress (with Jonathan still on it) and danced through the apartment singing _Carmen_.

"I take it things went well." Jonathan said from beneath the mattress, his anger simmering like an unattended pot. His face was flattened on the floor which had the terrific texture of grainy sandpaper and the weight of the bed kept him there. God, he could taste the must when he _breathed_. Jonathan clawed his way out from under the mattress in time to see Harvey twirl back into the room. With all the quiet grace of a man accustomed to holding in fury Jonathan entwined his fingers and rested his chin on the back of his hands with a smile. "So, how did it go?"

"Fantastic," Harvey gasped, as breathless and excitable as a teenage girl who'd just gotten asked to prom by her big crush. "Get dressed, we're leaving now." Jonathan scrambled from beneath the bed and just barely managed to keep a shred of his dignity before Harvey hurled his piles of clothes at him and struck him in the face.

"What about breakfast?"

"You can eat on the way, now get your pants on."

Thus Jonathan found himself in the backseat of the van. Harvey was good on his word about eating—they stopped at a gas station and what Jonathan hoped was a breakfast burrito was pushed through the back window for him. It smelled like grease and burned plastic but he ate it anyway. At least it was cooked all the way through.

Black Jack was driving and he gave Crane a funny look when the ex-professor dragged himself up from the luggage area to prop his elbows on his and Harvey's armrests. "I hate to pry," he said casually, "but do we intend to arrive sometime before next week?"

"Cool your jets doc, we're almost there,"Harvey smirked, shoving Jonathan off the armrest so he could keep his hand steady while he flipped his coin. "It's a ways out of the way obviously, but that's good. Batman would figure crimes to go down out here so he's always keeping an eye out, but the city's been getting pretty rough. He's so preoccupied with Gotham he's hardly got time for anything but us villains. Kind of warms your heart, doesn't it?"

"Like a fire poker to the chest. How much longer?"

"Fifteen minutes. Sit back and enjoy the ride, would you?" _Because this is so enjoyable. _Jonathan slumped back into a bureau with a huff, crossing his arms on top of his knees. He was beginning to get the inkling that Harvey's respect for him had dwindled. Then again Harvey was always used to being the big man in the operation no matter how minor, so maybe he had never respected Jonathan and just used him as something to lean on. It wouldn't have been the first time he got involved with another costumed criminal purely for fringe benefits, and certainly not the first time he'd been used. The Joker was forever pulling him into schemes, and Harley and Edward were always finding reasons to call him up. But maybe he was confusing friendship with using someone. That wouldn't be the first time, either. From his position squashed between suitcases Jonathan speculated his relationship with Harvey.

The two had met because of the Joker, and after getting to know one another they found they had common interests. Both peddled drugs and other illegal services to fund their own whims, spent their free time terrorizing Gotham, both had a grudge against Batman and after combining their operations their capital tripled. So far their careers in crime together totaled a fantastic eight months—plenty long enough to grow tired of someone, especially if they were as anal and OCD as Jonathan. They may have never been equals in Harvey's spilt mind, so far as he knew. It was difficult enough for him to psychoanalyze himself, let alone someone with a mind fractured into two separate entities. The trauma of his own destruction had made Harvey into a monster—at least in the eyes of anyone who considered themselves sane—but his mind had been mutilated far worse than his charming face. Horror stories circulating _en mass_ revealed tales of Harvey's inner sadist, as well as the cold-blooded killer lurking beneath a charred surface. He'd always been the good guy, but already his terms had become black and white.

Jonathan shuddered at the thought of what agony Harvey must have undergone through the Joker's "artistic process". Harvey had the misfortune of being the man who chose to stand up for what was right in a town gone wrong and paid the price for it. Maybe that was why the town was drowning in scum and dirt bags—everyone else had already learned to stay out of the way of Gotham's underbelly before they ended up in a body bag or decimated like Harvey. Anyone who had the sense to listen to the news and stay at home was more likely to live another day than the man who got on the podium and spoke out against crime in a society that thrived on it. Hell, most of the city's underlying economy was pushed by the mob, and their dirty practices provided jobs to those who otherwise couldn't work. Win-win all around until someone with a justice complex elbowed their way into business they had no place getting into. People like that ended up dead or dying. Or with half a face.

_Once I think I've got him down to a set persona he pulls a mental fast one and throws me off. I can never get a hold on what's going on inside his head when it's so effectively divided. That ought to make it easier. _ The van hit a bump in the road and Jonathan was painfully jostled on the bureau, his shoulder digging into the corner of the wooden dresser. He ignored it until the van screeched to a sudden stop and it was jabbed back in with the added force of a near-toppling tree.

"What the hell, Harvey, why're we—"

"We're here."


	2. Progress

I.

It was Blackjack who fetched Crane from beneath the bureau after hefting it off of him, tugging the dresser out so Jonathan could scramble out the back. He shot Black Jack a dirty look and the henchman shrugged lamely in apology for the sudden stop. Adjusting his clothes in a huff Jonathan walked round to the front of the van where Harvey was leaning against the passenger door, flipping his coin slowly. He saw Jonathan and the incoming storm of whining, so before the ex-doctor could even get out a word Harvey grabbed him by the hand and dragged him, pulling him ahead at almost the pace of a sprint. At first Jonathan was only startled, but with a jolt he realized that the situation was oddly familiar. A flash of his bizarre dream returned to him, the sensation of a warm hand gripping his and the burn in his lungs, then the single eye spotlighted. Jonathan was not a believer in _deja vu_ or premonition, but even he could admit the circumstance was just a bit off.

"Harvey, would you _please_—"

"Alright, here," Dent gasped, letting go of Crane's hand, slowing to a stop. He bent over for a second to take a breath, then righted himself, grinning ear to grisled ear. "Okay Crane, take a look at that, why don't you?" He gestured with an open palm to the towering edifice, its height hardly comparable to its width. It spanned farther than Jonathan could see, taking up an almost incomprehensible amount of space, looming over all the other warehouses giving them the appearance of insignificance. There was no doubt in Jonathan's mind this was the Joker's warehouse; Jack would never settle for second best, and this was definitely the best of the bunch. Early afternoon sun reflected on the huge upper-level windows that were half crusted over with salt, and the walls closest to the water were black from years of built up grime and rust. Water stains coated at least one entire side, and the paint was peeling from the two massive front doors that opened into the warehouse.

It was the most beautiful thing Jonathan had ever seen.

"This is ours?" he asked breathlessly, scarcely able to believe Joker would agree to handing it over. In fact, that was pretty suspicious. Joker never did anything for free, and certainly never out of the goodness of his heart. "What's the catch?"

"Catch?"

"Don't even pretend Dent, you know as well as I—if not better—that the Joker is hardly the compassionate type. How much did this cost us, because if you haven't noticed we're a little short of funds at the moment. Or have you been holding out on me?"

"Christ, you're paranoid! Relax a second Crane, before you give yourself a heart palpitation, hm? Now c'mon, walk with me." He started to walk away, heading for the front doors. Jonathan opened his mouth to point out how completely idiotic Harvey was for even suggesting him to be paranoid because people really were in fact out to get him—Joker being quite high on the list—when he realized that would only be proving Harvey's point. Avoiding the temptation to stomp his foot in frustration like a preteen girl Jonathan followed Harvey, jamming his hands in his coat pockets. The cold was really beginning to set in now, and as Jonathan stepped into the shadow of the towering warehouse he began to wonder—about his dream, about Harvey, and about the future.

"Now, is this impressive or _what_?" Jonathan had to admit, it was. Inside the warehouse was even more spectacular than outside, and the sheer size was almost overwhelming. The total amount of empty space boggled the mind, and standing on the second floor balcony Jonathan tried to decide just what they were going to do with all of it. Harvey apparently already had plans; several of his cars were parked in one section, but even their contribution of mass did little to take away from all the unused capacity.

"C'mere Johnny, there's something I want to show you—I just know it's going to make your day." Harvey was directing him down the balcony steps and across the way to another set of steps, these heading even lower.

"I thought these warehouses sat right on the docks," Jonathan said as they jogged down the concrete stave, only Harvey's zippo acting as lumination in the dark stairwell.

"Some of them rest partially on land," he explained. "This one does, at least. Half of it has an underground section set aside for storage, which comes in handy for drugs, guns, or any other illicit artifact you're trying to hide. In your case though, I thought you might find it more useful for, I don't know . . . _other_ things." They reached a door almost completely covered in rust; when pushed open the metal shrieked, and Jonathan winced at the sound.

"You don't mean. . .?" _Test subjects_.

"Mm-hm." Even in the half-dark he could see the grin spreading on what was left of Harvey's face, his manic glee beginning to show. Apparently he thought this was going to be something Jonathan would lose himself over, because he ushered Crane into the black of the room, putting away the zippo to plunge them into total darkness. Again it was disturbingly familiar, the creeping blackness that pervaded his senses, numbing them, dampening them, until they were almost nonexistent.

"Goddammit Dent, would you turn on the light, please? I can't see an inch in fro—"

And then _flash!_, there it was. With a hiss he covered his eyes, the burning practically tangible. He pulled his hand from his face ready to cuss Harvey out, but the ability was lost to Jonathan when it dawned on him what his abused eyes were seeing. He took off his glasses, polished them for a moment on the corner of his shirt (something he rarely ever did) then replaced them, blinked, and laughed in disbelief and wonder. Harvey, on the other side of the room, standing by a light switch that looked like it belonged in Frankenstein's laboratory, laughed too.

"So, what do you think?"

"I think that you can't be serious."

The room was at least a quarter of the size of the warehouse upstairs, and half as high. Pipes ran along the ceiling and disappeared through the floor, and jungles of electrical wires interconnected all along the walls. There were no windows and no other doors. Jonathan's imagination showed him fantasies of subjects strapped to chairs, bound tight, screaming through their gags. _Dreams are made of this._

In the farthest corner, near to Harvey, was a miniature city of stacked cardboard boxes, taped up and labeled "FRAGILE" in big red block type. When Jonathan finished marveling like an awe-struck child he approached the boxes, turning the closest one around to read the top. Something was written on it with sharpie in what could only have been Harvey's handwriting. It was probably because of this that Jonathan couldn't read it. _Maybe all that fire got into his brain. Or maybe the bastard just never learned how to write. Do they even have a word to describe how illegible this is?_

"It says, 'Johnny's Personals'. I know my handwriting isn't up to par, but you're looking at it like it's an affront to God."

"That's because it is. Joker set your head on fire, not your hand." But there was no real bite to his reply; he was too busy tearing the tape off the boxes, ripping them open to examine the insides. He already knew Harvey had had his personals sent ahead earlier, but seeing them made them more real, and as loathe as Jonathan was to admit it, his few worldly possessions meant quite a bit to him. The first box were his books: Medical texts, psychology journals, bedside reading. The next few boxes were his wardrobe (mostly slacks and sweaters), and the rest were his research equipment, all the beakers, test tubes, and burners that went into the process of making toxic hallucinatory chemicals. Relief flooded him; nothing was broken or missing. Satisfied, Jonathan closed the boxes back up, sighing in alleviation. Harvey had moved to join him now, and he actually smiled at him.

"Thank you," he said, and he honestly meant it. Harvey looked puzzled, probably because Jonathan Crane never said "thank you" to anyone, at least not that he'd heard.

"You're . . . welcome," he said eventually, still thrown. But he was grinning, undeniably pleased that he'd gotten such a reaction from the Master of Fear. He started to laugh, then decided against it, covering his mouth. Jonathan was so easily offended. "If you're done checking everything, we've got business upstairs."

"Business?"

"That catch you mentioned before. I agreed to a deal with Joker, and you're helping."

"Ah ha! I am _not_ just paranoid! I knew it!"

"No, you are paranoid. But you're also right."

Jonathan sighed again, deeper this time with a morose note. He had every right to be worried; every time he got involved with any of the Joker's schemes, he usually ended up in the hospital or back at Arkham, and although both of those places were as easy to escape as it was to breathe, it was generally more difficult when you had broken ribs or dislocated limbs. It was no stretch of the truth to say that the Joker was self-obsessed, and when plans went wrong he focused on saving himself, not his partner in crime. Even his henchmen (at least those who lived long enough) knew better than to expect aid when shit hit the fan. "Every man for himself" was practically the Joker's personal mantra.

And Jonathan had learned the _very_ hard way that Joker took his mantra seriously. Not counting his own self-induced injury during plan execution screw-ups, he'd been sent to either Gotham General or Arkham Asylum infirmary five times, all of them due to Joker's negligence or his direct violence. There was the most obvious incident where Jonathan had sprayed Joker with his toxin and then been beaten half to death with a chair, but he chose not to acknowledge that one, since it was his own fault (technically) for spraying Joker in the fist place. In his defense, Jack had it coming. And no matter what flashy object Joker presented him with—even if it was a safe refuge to practice experimentation—Jonathan wasn't about to open up his arms wide and give Jack a great big hug.

Jogging back up the stairs Harvey outlined the details of his and the Joker's settlement while Jonathan managed the difficult task of keeping his footing in the dark.

"Joker is working on this, uh, project, I guess you'd call it, and he wants our help to pull it off."

"The Joker, admitting he needs help with anything? Now I know you're screwing with me."

"I know, I was bit put off too, but he seemed . . . _serious_." Both of them shuddered at the mere mention of the word; it evoked images of Glasgow smiles and dirty knives. "You and I both know how insane he is so I was wary, but this seems safe enough."

"_Seems_, Harvey? It _seems_ safe? I'd have thought you were smarter than that, nothing that clown does is safe, not even eating." No kidding; the Joker usually ate with said dirty knives, whether the meal be steak or tapioca. "What could he have honestly said that convinced you we wouldn't end up with something broken, fractured, or punctured, hm?"

Harvey paused on the top step, looking over his shoulder at Jonathan. His shape was silhouetted by the daytime light streaming from the open doorway, his face hidden in partial shadow. There was a glint off of Two-Face's coin as he flipped it into the air; time slowed, and Crane swore it hovered for a second, pausing to make itself an eclipse against the sun. Then it fell, landing in Harvey's upturned palm with a soft _thump_.

"I flipped for it," he said simply, then turned on his heel, dashing up the steps and out of sight. Jonathan listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps, alone and exasperated in the secluded stairwell. He took a long, deep breath, tasting the age of the warehouse on his tongue, his nostrils clogged with the cold smell of sea salt and mold. For a terrifying moment Jonathan Crane felt his years beginning to catch up to him, his three decades worth of life pressing in on all sides, very much like the grainy concrete walls surrounding him.

But before another despairing thought could pass him, Harvey was back, impatient and alight.

"Are you planning on joining me, or do you like it down there that much?" Jonathan, shocked out of his reverie, was about to bark something unsavory back until he saw the way Harvey was smirking, and his anger drained away to someplace else. He started to smirk too, and climbed the remaining steps.

"You know Dent, you are a _real_ ass someti—" And it was that moment that Jonathan's already faulty luck failed him yet again. He tripped on the top step, hurtling towards the floor and surely another broken nose. Or at least he would have been, before Harvey caught him. The ex-district attorney dropped to one knee, catching Crane in his arms, hauling him up before he could smash his face for the second time in two days. He pulled him up, dragging him away from the stairs, propping him up against the wall.

When both their hearts stopped hammering, Harvey gave Jonathan a very annoyed look, but a bemused one nonetheless. "You were saying?" he smiled nonchalantly, flashing Jonathan a toothy grin. He looked like he might start giggling any second. The scarred skin around his flayed mouth twitched, and as disgusted as Jonathan was (not to mention pissed) he actually found himself smiling; something he'd been doing a lot of today.

"You're such as ass, Two-Face."

"Ah, but it takes one to know one, Scarecrow."

II.

Eventually Harvey got around to explaining all the details of their promised assistance with Joker's scheme, and what Jonathan heard he did not like. It was the first of November, and that, according to Harvey, gave them twenty-nine days in which to prepare for what the Joker was calling "The Grand Christmas Caper." Anyone who dared called themself a costumed criminal in Gotham and was worth their spandex knew that the Joker despised Christmas above all holidays, and the date had taken on new meaning for the denizens of the cursed city. Instead of standing for joy and peace, nowadays it stood instead for fear and pain, and while someone like Crane—who had never liked Christmas to begin with—could appreciate striking fear into the hearts of Gotham's elite, even he was a bit anxious at the idea of being involved in any plan of the Joker's.

People had learned to expect trouble around the holidays because of the Joker, but the man's reputation only allowed him his fun every few years. He'd said so himself: "If I go cavorting about every single year, then all my little games lose their, uh, thrill, if you can see what I mean. The, uh, shock value, would go down, people wouldn't be as afraid. So I make some chaos every now and then, keep them guessing, you see? I never really plan when to do it, the ideas just _pop_ into my head when they want to!"

The Joker was fond of saying he never made plans, plans weren't chaotic, and Joker was supposed to be an agent of chaos. But in reality he thought ahead as much as any other criminal genius, just far more sporadically. His schemes came to him from nowhere, and the moment one got into his twisted head he went through with it, come hell or high water. That was what really set him apart from other masterminds—they knew when a plan was a bad idea. The Joker didn't seem to have the ability to acknowledge if a plan was a bad one, and carried it through no matter what the cost, be it his own well-being or, much more likely, the well-being of others. In fact, most of his plans usually involved the well-being of others, and how it was disrupted. Most of the time with a blunt instrument.

But this year it seemed the Joker had something better in mind than just beating people to death with a golf club or an aluminum baseball bat, or even torturing them with a varied selection of fine cutlery (dirty or otherwise), his most favorite past-time. No, this year he had something truly devastating in mind. Obviously the Joker was a man who had no trouble whatsoever with taking human life; it was probably his most well-known trait. He'd blown up a hospital with the full intention of killing everyone, not to mention rigged two ships to blow with hundreds of people inside, about to push the detonator before Batman intervened. So Jonathan thought nothing Jack did could surprise him, not until Harvey told him just what the Joker had in mind.


End file.
